


Time Frames

by rufeepeach



Series: Young Girls and Pet Dragons [1]
Category: Once Upon A Time - Fandom
Genre: F/M, baby!Belle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin, bound to King Maurice's castle by his dagger, has a good little friendship going with little Princess Belle. Until she hits adolescence, and develops 'feelings' and everything goes to Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warned as 'underage' for safety: Belle will spend more time chasing Rumpelstiltskin than the other way around. Still, I thought it best to warn anyway.

 

Belle decided at the age of seven that she didn’t want to marry Gaston.

She really, really didn’t.

And not even for all the reasons she didn’t want to marry Sir Frederick from two Realms over, or Prince James, the little boy who managed to fall out of her favourite tree while in a deadly battle with a squirrel.

That was just because they were _boys_ , and didn’t smell good, and liked to do stupid things then cry about them a lot.

Belle didn’t want to marry someone who couldn’t think straight.

Belle had decided at six-and-a-half that she was a grown-up, _thankyouverymuch_ , even if she was only three feet tall and soaked to the skin at the time.

Gaston was a grown-up, too: but not in a good way.

Belle didn’t want to marry Gaston, even when he gave her a daisy and asked her to, and her father talked to his father and decided that he was right.

She decided this the day that they were swimming with some of the village children. Belle was already stripped to her shift and a pair of _liberated_ trousers, paddling in the shallows. She was getting up the nerve to go in deeper: today, she would make it to the deep bit of the lake, the bit where she had to stand on her tiptoes to keep her head up.

She’d wanted, today, to try rock-climbing, but papa had personally forbidden it.

Gaston was up on the sandbank: planning battle strategies with his little wooden soldiers like his father.

She called for him to join them, but he just sniffed.

Belle had discovered that there were two kinds of grown-ups: nice ones, and sniffy, stuffy, horrible ones.

Her papa, Gaston, and all the War Council men who kept coming into her home and shouting a lot, were in the second category.

Rumpelstiltskin, her papa’s pet imp-man, was the only grown-up she knew who fit in the first lot. Well, aside from mama, but mama was gone and Belle didn’t like to think about it. It made her all drippy and sad, and today was a happy day.

She liked Rum. She didn’t like Gaston.

But still, Belle was a friend to all things, her mama taught her that, and she wanted to be in the same lot as Rum. She wanted to stay nice.

So she tried to get Gaston to join in and play.

She made a sacrifice for her apparent future-husband, and dived right into the deep bit of the lake without even screaming.

She’d never done that, but it was worth it to make him join in and smile for once.

He didn’t look up.

That was when Belle had an idea. Carefully, cautiously, she swam up to the sandbank where Gaston was playing, and lay in wait. She stayed until her toes were numb and her nose was going runny from the cold before she struck, hoping to catch him by surprise.

Rum liked to surprise her, jumping out of thin air and tickling her when she wasn’t looking. It always made her laugh, and stopped whatever Bad Things were making her sad.

So she waited until Gaston was really, really distracted before she leapt from the water with a mighty battle cry and threw some of his little men into the water with her tiny fists. Gaston jumped backward, uttered a word papa didn’t think she knew but Rum explained to her, and then scowled.

“What’re you _doing_?” he asked, as if she’d just run him through with a sword or something.

“I am a Kraken from the sea!” she yelled. She was trying to explain, make him understand that this was _fun_. She was just trying to turn their different games into one big one, trying to get him to play with the rest of them.

She couldn’t understand why he was staring at her like she had three ugly heads.

“You’re an idiot, and you’ve ruined my soldiers!” He replied, without a hint of a smile, and then grabbed the rest of his men like she’d drown them too and stomped off back to the castle.

That’s when Belle decided that she _really, really_ didn’t want to marry Gaston.

—-  
  


Belle’s twelfth birthday was the day she decided that she was in love.

Gaston bought her a diamond necklace, a flashy, gaudy thing, and it hung around her neck and weighed her down. While she wore it, she couldn’t change out of her dresses into her boots and trousers, couldn’t walk in the woods or paddle her feet in the river.

With this necklace on, she was claimed. And it made her neck ache.

So she spent her birthday wandering around the castle, her necklace hidden in her room where no one would ever see it, in the most comfortable and _unsuitable for a princess of the Realm_ clothes she can find.

She found herself in Rumpelstiltskin’s tower: she always did.

He was spinning, the way she always found him when her father didn’t need anything. She was a little disappointed that he hadn’t been downstairs and easily findable on her _birthday_ , of all days. He seemed to be going out of his way to hide from the Court.

“Why weren’t you there this morning?” she asked, as she slid around the door and into his study, and sat herself down on the stool by his wheel.

“For what, dearie?” his eyes were on the straw in his hands, and not on her.

“For my birthday breakfast. I had to keep listening to Gaston and his father drone on and even _papa_ was bored. You should have come and exploded something.”

“I was busy.” He replied, and she saw it, the moment his expression melted and became the imp-man who had been her best friend since she was four years old.

So she was smiling when she leaned in, excited, and asked, “Oh, doing what?”

“Ignoring spoilt little princess and their birthday parties,” he teased, and finally looked at her, warm wickedness in his opaque eyes.

She stuck her tongue out at him, childishly, “You’re just jealous.”

“Of what, dearie?”

“The whole castle came out to celebrate _me_.”

“If it was all so grand and shining, dearie, then why are you not out there enjoying it?” he asked, and there she felt it, the strange little shimmer of connection that kept her returning to this tower, kept her from being out there in the world with Snow and Aurora, who were visiting from their kingdoms especially.

“Didn’t you hear me? There’s droning going on.”

“Well up here there’s only an old, cantankerous monster and his spinning wheel.” He replied, but he didn’t sound his merry self, “Why ever would you choose that?”

“You’re more fun than you think you are.” She smiled, and it felt real for the first time all day. It was hard to smile when you felt everything resting on a heavy and uncomfortable and altogether _too bright_ diamond necklace.

“I highly doubt that. You just have very poor taste.” He sniffed, “I’ve corrupted you.”

“Yep!” she grinned, “So, what’d you get me?”

He watched her for a moment, sizing her up, and then obviously decided that enough was enough. He reached down into the basket at his feet, and drew out a long loop of golden thread.

Although, on closer inspection, it was a cluster of threads all plaited and woven together.

“I told you I was busy,” he grinned, “Happy birthday.”

She tried not to squeal like a little girl, really, she did. Because Belle has been a grown-up since she was six-and-a-half, and twelve was the kind of age when people started to notice.

But it was so perfect, beautiful and simple, with a tiny little green-blue jewel hung from the very centre.

So she gave up the fight, and cried out in happiness, threw her arms around his neck and hugged him like a tiny child with a soft toy. It was so much better than Gaston’s handful of rocks, something precious and magical and _hers_. Not a down payment, nor a promise: just a few golden threads, woven together.

He looked at her with such warmth, such startled affection, as he helped her secure her new necklace around her throat, that her heart gave a little flutter.

Her skin started to flush – which was most embarrassing, because grown-ups didn’t _blush_ when their imp-man friends gave them presents – and her heart raced, and her skin felt oddly _tingly_ where his fingers had brushed.

It was all very peculiar.

And very much like what happened in those books she and Snow had snuck from her new step-mother’s library, the kind papa didn’t approve of.

“Now,” he smiled benignly, sweetly, as if he hadn’t noticed at all her little episode, “Hadn’t you better be getting going? Lots of parties to attend, after all.”

“Y-yes,” Belle didn’t lose words, ever. She was the kind of girl that people wished would be speechless sometimes, just so they could have five minutes of peace. But somehow, her words were eluding her, “Of course. Yes. Yes.”

She stood, awkwardly, all arms and legs, and fled the room without meeting his somewhat perplexed gaze.

She described the encounter to Snow later – when she was done making cow-eyes at Prince James, who was too busy discussing swordplay with Gaston to notice anything anyway – and they agreed to consult the books again.

Of course, in this version Rumpelstiltskin was a knight of her father’s Court, and even then Snow was sworn to secrecy.

And so it was that, on her twelfth birthday, hidden under her covers with a lamp and one of Snow’s _liberated_ books, Belle discovered that she was in _love_.

—-  
  
Rumpelstiltskin noticed an awful lot of things, and yet pretended to see very little.

It was easier, that way, he found. For the King to be completely unaware of his true power, his true intelligence, the true force of his will. That way, one day, when the dagger was unguarded and he made his move, no one would see him coming.

It also meant that his demands were small and inconsequential, and Rumpelstiltskin’s guards were inadequate at best.

But Belle knew different, didn’t she? She always had, bright little thing that she was. The only one in the castle who could always see through any and every glamour he designed.

That, of course, was his reason for allowing the girl to befriend him.

Nothing at all to do with her bright, questioning, trusting little eyes, or the curious way she cocked her head to the side like a little bird when she listened; her loose-limbed, entirely genuine monkey hugs or the way she had never, not even once, been afraid of him.

No, it was just so she wouldn’t rat him out when he worked around one of her father’s orders and broke a few rules.

Still, Rumpelstiltskin noticed things, and it was hard to ignore how strange she had started acting.

It had been gradual, the strangeness. Coming and going in fits and starts, awkward and yet unrelenting. It had started when she turned twelve, with just a few odd moments here and there when she wasn’t quite herself.

Once upon a time, Rumpelstiltskin was the father of an adolescent.

Granted, Bae had been a boy, and he was a fair bit quieter and more sensible than this girl-child, who would have ridden dragons if her father let her, if she could find one in the right shade of blue.

But still, the signs of growing pains were there, and he assumed that that was all.

All teenagers grew up awkwardly, all sullen frowns and gangly legs and unpredictable emotional outbursts.

He assumed that soon she would find some drippy prince to fawn over, and have little time for her father’s pet sorcerer anymore. All children lost their imaginary friends at some point or another.

And yet, even as she grew away, Belle always seemed to come back.

He tried not to be pleased that she was never without her gold-thread pendant. It seemed at least one little sign that the child he’d been so fond of wasn’t gone forever.

She was useful as an ally, yes: like all little girls with good lives, she had her father wrapped around her delicate little finger.

But she was also the only friend he had in this place, and he’d lost far too many people to age, far too quickly.

Such was his relief that she didn’t seem to be adopting that sulky, embarrassed, holier-than-thou attitude teenage princesses were renowned for, that he’d missed certain other things about her. Changes that, perhaps, he had been happy to remain oblivious to.

She was and always would be little Belle, who stole her cousin’s trousers to secretly go exploring, and swam in lakes pretending to be a sea monster. The girl who had once adopted a swearing, hissing, mangy old tomcat as her baby for a whole month, before Rumpelstiltskin quietly turned him back into the cobbler he once was and sent him on his way.

She forgave him for that eventually: even at eight years old, Belle hadn’t been good at holding grudges.

So he didn’t think anything of it when the girl in question, now fifteen and finally outgrowing her pubescent awkwardness, arrived at his study door and knocked their secret sign.

He knew it was her: the magics on that door could have identified – and stopped, if needs be – the Blue Fairy herself if she tried to come inside.

Still, the sign was another holdover from her childhood, and it made her happy.

Why that alone was a reason to do anything in Rumpelstiltskin’s book was a feeling he was all too happy to ignore completely.

“Come on in, dearie, it’s open!” he called, and even spun on his spinning stool to smile as she came in.

It had to be admitted, that was quite a dress she was wearing. All golden silk and flowing skirts: the kind of dress princesses wore.

She had closets full of them, and detested every one.

At least, she had when she was five.

Of course, this dress was not a dress for a five-year-old. It showed rather too much décolletage for that, exposed far too much of her shoulders and collarbone.

She blushed as he looked at her and, _oh_ , that was new.

And alarming: she was looking at him with those are-you-impressed calf-eyes most girls seemed to save for their chosen princes. The one no one – not even his wife, once upon a time, because village girls were more practical and straightforward than spoilt little princesses – had ever directed at _him_.

Belle was fifteen when Rumpelstiltskin realised he had a problem on his hands.

—-  
  
Things escalated rather quickly from there, much to Belle’s utter frustration.

The night of the Summer ball had been _terribly_ hopeful. She’d come to his _room_ , for goodness sakes, and despite all her teenage dreaming had expected nothing more than a pat on the head and an assurance that ‘you look lovely, dearie, as always’.

She’d gotten a sly, speculative look, which had covered what she clearly identified as slack-jawed astonishment.

And fifteen was old enough in some countries to _marry_ , although she hoped Gaston didn’t know about that. Of course, that would require him acknowledging anything beyond battle strategies and fencing, and the existence of cultures beyond their own, and Belle was, for once, thankful for her fiancé’s ignorance.

Still, after the Summer ball, Rumpelstiltskin started acting _strange_.

Stranger than usual, which by ordinary standards would be downright _odd_.

He was almost never in his room when she came to see him. If he was in there, he was on his way out, needing to go sort out the leaky roof in the stables, or advise her father on his next battalion movement.

The ogres had been beaten back years ago, but her father had been a warrior since he could walk and old habits die hard.

They were still friends, always and forever. But now, they seemed to only be so when there were people around.

Lots of people, most of whom were keeping a surreptitious eye on the pair of them.

It didn’t stop her from staring at him when he wasn’t watching, from hanging on every precise and somehow magical word that fell from his lips as he explained the elemental strategies of destruction magic to an over-mighty warlord. She laughed harder than maybe she should have when he quipped about something comically nasty and shocked every Lady in the room for his own amusement.

She couldn’t focus on anything else when he was around: there was a tingle of something sweet and warm that rushed down her spine whenever he smiled at her.

So she started to devise plans to work around this sudden change. Because she had been officially In Love with him since she was twelve years old, and even if she hadn’t been, she missed his company.

They couldn’t talk like they used to with so many people around to overhear.

It didn’t work, at first: for a sorcerer with near-unlimited powers, he really wasn’t great at getting a hint. She refused to believe that he was doing it on purpose: it was probably her father, trying to keep her away from bad influences now that she was a young woman and not a little girl.

She finally resorted to sending him a note, in someone else’s handwriting: an urgent letter requiring his presence in the rose garden.

She made up something silly, something about poisonous thorns or man-eating flowers. She was too busy choosing an outfit to pay too much attention to her excuse: just because she still loved her shirts and trousers, didn’t mean she couldn’t also look pretty once in a while.

She picked the floaty blue sea-foam dress Ariel gave her as a birthday gift. It was clingy on top and flowy on the bottom, perfect and romantic and exactly like Snow’s step-mother’s books described.

The rose garden seemed the perfect scene for a first kiss.

Everything was perfect, and then he arrived.

“Am I in the right place?” he asked, treading lightly as he stepped just inside the walled garden, no closer than he had to be.

“That depends…” she smiled, hoped it looked coy, bit her lip, “Does it feel right?”

There were a hundred childish voices in her head asking what she though she was doing: Belle was a dragon-slayer, a Kraken from the sea; she didn’t copy lines from Queen Regina’s dirty novels in flower gardens.

But he was her favourite person ever, and she was In Love with him, and this was the way it was done.

He laughed, nervously, the high-pitched giggle that only he could do. “What are you doing here, dearie?”

“Belle.” She corrected him, as she realised he wouldn’t come to her and started to cross to him, “My name is Belle.”

“Yes, I know.” He smiled, like she was a silly child, but the nerves in his eyes didn’t go away, “But it doesn’t answer my question, _Belle_.”

“I’m here to see you.” She smiled, “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“Of course I am: it’s always nice to see you.” He answered, and a little thrill of hope ran through her.

“Well, then…” she took one of his clawed and scaly hands in hers, and felt the rush of electricity she always felt when they had any physical contact whatsoever.

“Well, what, dearie?” he asked, as he stared at their joined hands in something resembling shock.

“ _Belle_.” She corrected, in what sounded to her like a sultry whisper. She hoped it sounded like that to him, too.

“I think ‘dearie’ is good for now.” He replied, as he gently disentangled his fingers from hers, “Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.” she looked at him, really looked at him, and worried that maybe she did something wrong. Maybe he’d been avoiding her for a reason: maybe he knew she liked him and was afraid to turn her down.

“Why not?” he asked, striding past her, hands whirling in his familiar dramatic motions, dancing in the air, “Too common and petty for such a high-born lady?” he spun to face her, finger pointed in her direction, but his smile was gently teasing and not malicious.

“No,” she smiled and swirled her skirt with one hand, “But we know each other, Rum. And I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“Well, _dearie_ ,” he smirked, and she tried not to shiver and become a puddle of goo on the floor, “I can see _that_.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“With what?”

She sighed, frustrated, threw her hands up and abandoned all pretence of flirtatious subtlety. Belle was never very good at such things, anyway. “With this? All of this?”

“All of _what_?”

She picked up the hem of her skirt and threw it back down again, gestured to the roses climbing all around them, “This is _romantic,_ jackass!”

He paused for a moment, and she wondered if he truly didn’t understand all that she was trying to do. Then he relaxed, and his smile was easy and all too platonic, and her heart sank like a stone.

“Oh, Belle,”

“Don’t ‘oh Belle’ me!” she protested, “I’m not a little kid anymore, you know.”

“I know,” he nodded, humouring her, smiling wide like he was laughing at her, “But I’m old enough to be your great-great-great-great-grandfather, and even if I weren’t, you’re fifteen and engaged to that great lump of a boy who likes beating things with swords. Remember?”

“Gaston’s… not you.”

His eyes were heartbroken for a moment, and the glimmer of hope that had been dying with every word flared back into life. Then he shook it off, and his smile was back and he was shaking his head, saying, “Surely, that’s a good thing.”

“No.” she rejected that notion entirely. You don’t live in an In Love state with someone for three years without knowing that your real fiancé doesn’t measure up, “I love _you_!”

And then she wanted to die, because of course he’d heard that, and now he was going to mock her and then avoid her forever.

“Oh.” He was frozen to the spot, staring at her like she was someone he’d never seen before. “You’re too young for that, aren’t you?”

“Not one bit.”

“Then…” he sighed, twiddled his fingers, his thinking-face in full force, “I’ll make you a deal.”

That was more like it, “Okay, what’re the terms?” she sidled up to him, and he took her shoulders and held her back. She tried to ignore the warmth radiating across her chest from his palms on her bare skin.

“Well, your father has forbidden me to leave the castle without permission, and I have certain… business to attend to elsewhere. Convince him to let me come and go as I please.”

“And? What do I get out of this?”

“A kiss for your sixteenth birthday.”

She felt she might faint.

“Deal?” his eyes sparkled, but his tone was serious.

“Deal.” She didn’t whimper. Of course not: that would be stupid.

He _beamed_ at her, and she should be frightened by the strange ugliness of his face. But all she wanted to do was kiss him, and convince him to move his hands down from her shoulders and to… other places. Places that were tingling and _begging_ for his touch.

But then he vanished in a cloud of smoke and glitter, and she was left staring at her sparkling palms, dazed and alone in the rose garden.


	2. Chapter 2

Belle was sixteen when Rumpelstiltskin learned to fear her.

She’d held up her end of their deal: she’d begged and pleaded and worked her blue doe-eyed magic on her father, and Rumpelstiltskin was free to come and go as he pleased. 

He was still summoned on a fairly regular basis, but at least he could be summoned from doing things other than a petty King’s will.

So then, on her sixteenth birthday, he waited for her outside her bedroom, for when she’d come up to change into a comfier dress than that silly pink and white pastry thing her maids had dolled her up in.

“I thought you weren’t going to show.” She said as she approached him, and he could almost see her fragile little heart pounding beneath her breast.

And he wasn’t ogling her, of course not: Belle was the bravest, silliest, sweetest child he’d known in centuries, and his friend for the past decade or more. Even if some bitch-goddess of adolescence had cursed her with a crush on him, that didn’t give an excuse.

She couldn’t be truly in love with him, no one could.

And he couldn’t love her at all, not as friend or younger sister or anything stronger, anything deeper or more grown-up than that. For that was the deal he’d struck, the law that he lived by.

And when, one morning in a year or two, she woke up in love with a handsome prince her own age, she would hate him for gawping at her innocent little maiden self.

“Where’s my end of the bargain, then?” she asked, and he could see the bravery in her, the boldness he’s always admired.

He smirked, leaned down, and kissed her forehead teasingly.

“That’s cheating.” She pouted, and oh, such pretty disappointment. 

He hadn’t moved back, his lips still just a hairsbreadth from her pale and perfect skin, and he shifted down just a little, smiled as he whispered, “My deal, my rules,” against her lips. 

This was the choice he offered: her way out. She could accept a kiss to the forehead as payment, and they could roll on as they always had.

But instead, of course, foolish girl that she was, she took the second option. She leaned forward just a little tiny bit, and pressed her soft, warm mouth against his.

Their kiss was the kind of slow, small, insignificantly precious little thing that such things always were. First kisses were rarely filled with passion or importance: this was soft and questioning, almost astonished. 

When he pulled back, her eyes were still closed.

He could almost see the girlish dreaming behind her eyes, and held firm to the fact that she had kissed him, and not the other way around.

It didn’t change at all the fact that she was still the girl he’d carried on his shoulders when she was six years old, who’d brought him a goldfish in an old jam jar and sang silly little saucepan songs she’d learnt from an old fire demon of his acquaintance. 

He was an old, lecherous monster, but still she kissed him first.

Her eyes fluttered open, and he covered whatever darkness he was feeling with a quick and almost mocking smirk. “There. All done.”

He was tempted to leave in a shower of gold and smoke, to remind her of who and what he is. But she was still Belle, whether she was six or sixteen or sixty, and she was owed better than that.

So he stuck around, and let her say something, “Yes, indeed.” She sounded like she wanted to make some other, less intelligible, little noise, but his Belle was always a stubbornly intelligent little thing, and she managed to make words instead.

“Alright?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” She swept him a deep curtsey, the final fall back of a well-trained princess in a difficult situation. He followed her lead and bowed low, coming up with an almost malicious little grin.

But she knew that grin, of course she did, and her laugh contained no hint of fear. A little awkwardness, maybe, but perhaps that was to be expected.

“Well, then,” she smiled, unsure of what to do with herself, and gods be damned if it wasn’t a little bit adorable.

“Yes, um… happy birthday.” He was about to leave – the human way, by walking away and up the stairs to his tower – when her expression changed. He knew that face: it was her made-a-decision face. It was a dangerous face.

“Yes.” She murmured, absently, right as she leaned back forward and put her hands on his shoulders, sealing her lips back against his with far more fervour than before.

And how could he be expected to be chaste and sweet and gentlemanly a second time? He was, after all, a tried and condemned and confirmed monster, the Dark One incarnate, and no one in their right mind would leave such a creature around innocent young maidens.

Especially maidens like Belle, who seemed completely intent upon breaking every shred of decency and resolve he had left in his charred and tattered soul.

Her tongue swept along his lower lip, and he gave in with a low, inhuman growl as his hands gripped her hips, fingernails digging into her flesh as he slammed her back against the wall and plundered her mouth. He kissed her like he would eat her alive, with all the ferocity of forever, of the true and evil darkness in his heart and the raw power it contained. 

And the girl just moaned, a deep and womanly sound that was so wrong coming from her little maiden self, and gave herself to him completely.

She trusted him, far more than she should.

Far more than was good for either of them.

And with this realisation, he pulled back and stared down at her, admiring his handiwork. Her lips were swollen and bruised, skin flushed and breathing laboured. But there was no shock or fear in her gaze up at him, just a wonder and affection and victory that stunned him to silence.

“What did I do to earn that?” she asked, and he wondered if maybe she was speaking as much to herself as to him.

He remained silent, staring like he’d never seen her before.

This was a new Belle, alive and well before his eyes, a girl a million miles removed from childhood, with heaving bosom and softly parted lips. 

“Nothing.” He replied, and pulled away, let her drop back to her feet and straighten herself up, “I’m sorry, nothing at all.” He smiled a defensive, deflective smile, clapped his hands, spun on his heel and strode away.

\---

Belle’s dreams were inappropriate for a sixteen-year-old maid.

But she couldn’t really be blamed, she reasoned, when they’re based on real experience. When she didn’t ask him to throw her against a wall and… well, Snow’s books would describe it as ‘ravishing’, but it felt more like being eaten alive and loving every moment of it.

Either way, she didn’t ask for these dreams, and so she tried not to feel any shame when she awoke one night, panting and flushed, having just relived the night of her birthday in startling and somewhat graphic detail.

Only without the awkward moment when he stopped, dropped her to the floor, and all but ran for the staircase.

In fact, Belle’s dreams continued to a rather logical – if somewhat scandalous – finale.

And that would have been enough for her, had they been based on some gormless and unattainable prince. Had she been dreaming about Gaston, and able to lock the sensation away in her head to be enjoyed on her wedding night, or about Snow’s Prince James, a boy who had never given her the time of day, then life would have been much simpler.

Trust her to be In Love – and now, to her complete surprise, In Lust – with the twisted and wicked sorcerer in the high tower.

Belle was always determined, and had never ever been afraid of Rumpelstiltskin. 

He was the man who had taught her to read runes, and tell the time from the position of the sun, and who held her when she sobbed at her mama’s death. Who hid her away, like conspirators or fugitives, in his tower when the palace prepared for a funeral, and all her maids wanted to fit her for a new black wardrobe.

Who beat any other gentleman of her acquaintance when she turned twelve, and he presented her with a gold spun pendant and her own heart, all in one gesture.

She knew he wanted her, as much as she felt she had always wanted him.

How else could he kiss her so deeply, and make her tingle from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes? 

Who could deny these butterflies that filled her stomach, and sent her head reeling in a strange and warm little parody of madness?

She enjoyed herself, those next few months. She accosted him in hallways, when they found themselves alone, unable to keep her hands anywhere but all over him, in his hair and on his shoulders, holding him against her.

The first time was after he’d made a brilliant speech to the War Council about the importance of siege weaponry as opposed to sheer manpower and caught her staring, watching his lips form the words, and winked at her when no one was looking.

She’d followed him out, after his grand exit, and hauled him against the wall the way he had done her.

She’d felt the tension in his muscles, the apprehension racing through him even as he was kissing her back, even as his hands rested on her waist and lips worked against hers.

But he hadn’t pushed her away, not immediately, not until at least half a minute had passed and he’d had time to work out what was happening.

Then he’d gently moved away from her, and shaken his head, and said, “Oh, no dearie. We’re not starting that again.”

“Why not?” she tried to keep the insecurity out of her voice, the little girlish whine that begged why am I not good enough?

“Because your father is all of a hundred yards away, and I am not your fiancé.”

That wasn’t a ‘no’, and it wasn’t a denial of attraction or refusal of her advances. It was a reason for discretion, nothing more.

So she stopped attacking him where her father was nearby. But the castle was massive, and her father spent most of his hours in the war room, and so there were opportunities by the handful.

It always went the same way: she would find him, outside the library, walking in the herb gardens, reading in a small and secluded courtyard. They’d be alone – no sense in anyone seeing them and reporting it to her papa or Gaston – and she would fight to keep still, to stand in his presence and not reach out with grasping hands for the lapels of his dragonhide coat.

But Belle was sixteen, and In Love, and her resolve never lasted long.

She would find herself flush against him in some dark alcove, or against one of the castle’s stone walls, or lying on the grass in the hidden meadow of the gardens.

And they’d kiss and touch and close their eyes for a few glorious minutes that spanned years and eons, that fuelled every daydream playing looped behind her eyes.

And then he’d sigh, and come back to himself, and gently push her off of him – or himself away from her, in those rare and beautiful times when his resolve was frayed and he’d steal control from her, pin her beneath him and kiss her breathless – and go back to work as if nothing had happened.

She came to believe herself his guilty pleasure, the thing he wished he could live without.

Perhaps that was all he was to her, too: a distraction from the impending doom of marriage to Gaston.

But how could that be, when she’d been In Love with him since she was twelve years old, and he kissed her with such passion, such ferocity that she could melt into his arms and be happy in her liquid state?

And everything was fine and golden and shining, long looks and stolen glances, kisses in rose gardens and ravishments in hallways.

Until the day that his lips froze over hers, and he tore his mouth away, and shielded her with his body without a single word. The alcove opened onto the courtyard under her bedroom, and no one ever came here.

But then she heard her name called, in a voice clearly Gaston’s. Rumpelstiltskin stayed perfectly still, keeping her from view, until the calling had faded and they were truly alone once more.

“Wow,” she breathed into his neck, “Close one, huh?”

“Yes,” he murmured, hand stroking her hair, “A little too close, dearie, for my liking.”

He pulled away, looked down at her, and she swore that he looked more human every day. 

But perhaps her mind was playing tricks, tempting her to see what she wanted to see: a human man, capable of marrying her one day and living his days in sunlight and goldspun mischief, without the knotted and gnarled darkness that Rumpelstiltskin carried in his skin.

“I think perhaps it’s time to stop.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, regretfully, “I’m late for dinner, anyway.”

“No, dearie,” he smiled, pulled back, eyes distant and closed-off, “I mean for good. You’re nearly seventeen, old enough to marry. And your virtue needs no more tarnish.”

“My virtue can go do something painful to itself!” she protested, “I’m old enough to decide for my own fate.”

“You’re young enough to believe that’s true.” If it weren’t for the startling clarity of her memories, his hands fisted in her hair, his mouth hot and wet and desperate against hers, she’d believe the condescending sweetness of his tone.

But he hadn’t seen her as a child in a long time, and this was not the moment when she’d believe anything different.

So she bridged the gap between them, and took his hand in hers, “I don’t care if you don’t care.”

“Dearie, you’re misunderstanding me.” He shook his head, “This isn’t love: this is chance, and it’s rather sweet but it doesn’t last.”

She felt she might start to cry, fat childish tears of rejection and teenage insecurity. Because she’d been In Love with him for nearly half a decade, and she knew that he had to feel the same, deep down, somewhere in that granite heart of his.

“Don’t talk down to me, Rumpelstiltskin,” she glared up at him, “You’ve never done that. Don’t start now.”

“I’m just telling truth, dear, it’s not my fault if you’re too immature to hear it.”

He was being cruel, distant, convincing her of his true monstrosity. Forcing her away, driving her into the arms of someone who wouldn’t say such things, who was too stupid to even form the words.

“You want me, Rumpelstiltskin, and I know that well enough to say it.”

“I’m a man, Princess, it’d be strange if I didn’t desire an attractive young woman.” He sneered at her, “It doesn’t mean that any of this means more than that.”

“Yes, yes it does.” she countered, “And one way or another, I’ll prove it.”

\---

Belle was sixteen when Rumpelstiltskin watched her childhood fall away.

She stopped speaking to him altogether, ignored him like the Snow Queen on a bad day. Her response to any glance from him was utter indifference, an almost-regal flip of the head that told him clearly that she wasn’t deaf or blind, she was ignoring him.

It would have been petty and childish on someone else.

But Belle was too firmly bled under his skin, and so all this did was hurt like blazes, and make him glad that her father released him from his bondage to the palace.

He spent a lot of time in his old home, tidying up the place, making it liveable again. It was a project, a way of distracting himself from memories of her soft skin and sweet, wet, pliable lips. From her eyes, warm and dancing merry as she gazed at him, ready to pounce.

It was entirely impossible for him to love a single soul in this world. 

He forfeited that right when he plunged an enchanted dagger into the Earth, and let go of the one precious and beautiful thing he’d ever known, the only thing that mattered.

And Belle was sixteen, and so touch was too early, indiscreet. She should have been sweetly kissing her knightly fiancé at a summer ball, not groping with a knotted, ugly and corrupted old monster in alcoves and stone corridors.

So he spent as much time as he could away from the Marchlands palace, away from Belle and her people.

But then, one evening in July, he arrived back at his castle chambers after a meeting with the War Council and found a surprise waiting for him. 

Belle. In his bed. Covered in a sheet but clearly missing any and all of her clothing.

He’d be lying if he said he knew what to do with that.

“Belle!” he didn’t squawk in surprise, of course not, because he was a three hundred-year-old sorcerer and he didn’t squawk.

He shouted in a strangled, high-pitched tone. Totally different.

“You took your time,” she said; her smile was wide and entirely too inviting.

“I would have taken longer, dearie, if I’d known what kind of stunt you were pulling.”

“Oh, now don’t be like that…” she pouted, and seven fucking hells, she was beautiful. And he was a monster, and monsters took what they wanted without apology or mercy. No one expected any more of him than complete and utter evil, and surely the ruining of a fair and innocent maiden in his own bed would be right up that alley.

“You should go, now, dearie.” He turned his back – after having committed every curve of her body under the sheet to memory, no sense in wasting the sight, after all – and waited.

There was no movement from the bed. Of course not: that would require the foolish girl to have some kind of sense.

Perhaps she just knew them both better than he did; perhaps this was all that either of them was ever born for, and she was just following divine guidance.

It was logic like that that always got him into trouble.

“Go?” she laughed, and he tried not to turn around, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then I shall go and tell the guards that there is a lost and disobedient child trying to deprive me of sleep. I’m sure they’d be interested in that.”

“I’d just tell them you kidnapped me.” She said, idly, and there wass a snake in the pit of his stomach, coiling his nerves into knots and biting at sensitive places. Because of course anyone would believe that, the word of a distressed princess over the Realms’ greatest nightmare, however bound he was.

Even if she smiled and held her head high, and proclaimed to all the land that she wanted this as much as he did, perhaps even more, then the same conclusions would be drawn.

“Leave, dearie, before I do something I’ll regret.”

“Oh, now that sounds like a promise.” he wondered if not looking at her was in fact making the situation worse: she was all too brave, his foolish little Belle, and too ready to poke a dragon with a stick just to see what would happen.

Usually, at least, having to look him in the face stilled some of her wilder impulses.

Because she was a sixteen-year-old maiden, no matter how womanly her little laughs or perfectly curved her form, and she was still vulnerable to teenage embarrassment.

But still, for a moment, when he could hear rustling sheets behind him and her bare feet padding on the wooden floor, he thought he’d won.

But then there were lips at his ear, and hands on his shoulders, and she was breathing on his neck in warm little gasps. 

“Come on, Rumpelstiltskin.” She breathed, “This is what we both want. So what’s the problem?”

He broke away, and sealed all the tenderness and warmth he felt for this darling, insane little creature in a cage in the back of his mind. He sneered at her, hands on her forearms, claws digging into soft skin “The problem, Belle, is that this isn’t what I want.”

“Oh.” The girl was suddenly just that: a girl, a lonely child rejected on the playground. She flickered and changed before his eyes, as she had done for the past year or so. From little child to winsome girl to wise and knowing woman, and back again.

The steel in her eyes, though, had never changed. “You’re lying.”

He broke his hands from her arms and folded them defensively across his chest, “You’re a silly little thing, aren’t you? Don’t you understand, dearie, that you could never truly care for me?”

“I’ve cared for you since I could walk.” She replied, and there was a lost and lonely core of him that wanted to believe her so badly it hurt.

“Then call yourself an ally and put your clothes back on.”

She looked as if he’d slapped her, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her and stroke her hair like lover, kiss every little hurt better. But he was a terrible man and a brilliant monster, and monsters don’t heal the wounds they themselves inflict.

“Okay.” he turned back around, and he heard her moving about, finally murmuring something when she was done.

It was almost worse, with her stood before him with her hair down around her shoulders, wrapped in a red and gold dressing gown, looking all small and lonely and ashamed of herself. Because all he wanted in this whole gods-be-damned universe was to make her smile again, bring that beautiful and confident woman back to life and strip the robe from her bit by bit.

But this was better: at least she was clothed.

And he could snap his fingers at any time, and transport her back to her room without a soul knowing she’d been gone.

Her virtue would remain intact, and they could carry on as they always had.

“I’m sorry.” She murmured, and he was broken.

There was nothing for her to say sorry for, and a million tiny apologies he owed her. He was supposedly the adult here, the one with the experience to know when to call time. Yet he didn’t say a word to discourage her in all those months when she was reaching for him in the gardens, and kissing him breathless in hallways.

This was the logical next step for her to take, and he’d given no signal that it would not be accepted with all the rest.

So he did something he knew that he’d regret, and leaned down to kiss her on the lips, all sweet and chaste, his hands cupping her face and never straying lower.

He moved away and replaced the cruelty he’d held before with gravity, with the tenderness he couldn’t help but feel for her. “It would have been a terrible idea, sweet, you know that.”

She nodded, tried to smile bravely, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You have to do as your told: what would Gaston say, if your wedding night was not as he expected?”

“I don’t want to do this with Gaston,” she protested, but her voice was quiet and weak, lacking in her usual fire.

“And I know of none who would,” he allowed, “But it doesn’t change a thing. This Court doesn’t look kindly on fallen women, Belle. How would they feel about the girl who gave herself to a monster?”

She looked like she might argue, but he could see the fear in her eyes, knew that he’d won.

“What if they didn’t know?” she asks, after a moment, “What if we didn’t tell them?”

“I don’t think either of us are cut out for orchestrating a clandestine affair, dearie.”

“Not all the time, not more than once. I just… I love you. Don’t make me marry him without showing you that.”

She was a liar: she had to be. Somewhere in her soul she had to be as sick as he, to be able to weave such pretty lies with such truthful eyes. Perhaps she truly believed it, truly thought that one such as her could love the Dark One. But self-delusion was no reason for him to believe her.

And so it was with as clear a conscience as he could manage that he said, “Tell you what, love. I’ll make you a deal.”

“Another one?” she looked far too excited, but considering what she’d received last time they’d made a deal, perhaps she had a good reason to be.

He was going to make this impossible, so she’d leave him alone forever. So she could go back to her silly little princess life and abandon whatever pretty fantasy she had in her head to the four winds. 

“Your father has my dagger, and I need it back. Steal it back for me, and in return…” he took a deep breath, “In return, I will take you to bed when you turn eighteen.”

She frowned, understanding everything and nothing of what he’d just asked of her.

And he didn’t know if he wanted her to accept. Because if she did, then she would be willing to risk the lives of everyone she knew and cared about for the sake of one roll in the hay, and he wouldn’t know how to react to that.

Everyone knew what happened when people lost control of pet dragons.

Except that he couldn’t do a thing to hurt her, not properly, not really, but no one else knew that. Except for her. There was still that infernal trust in her eyes, and it begged him to not abuse her this way simply by misinterpreting him as a good person, under all the smoke and golden scales.

But that wouldn’t stop him from orchestrating nasty accidents for all those who had taunted him when he was first bound here, for the lords and ladies of this Realm who had treated him as some sort of a servant.

By agreeing to steal back his dagger, she would be dooming whole hoards of people to an unpleasant fate.

But she just chewed her lip for a moment, frowned, and then stuck out her hand. “Deal.”


	3. Chapter 3

He was never around anymore.

Ever.

Never by his wheel, nor in his rooms, nor reading in the courtyards; Rumpelstiltskin was a ghost who haunted her home, unseen but certainly not unfelt.

She always arrived to dinner a moment too late, when he’d already excused himself or sent his apologies for not attending at all.

And she was always in the war room just after he’d left, or his messenger had arrived with some sort of advice or news from the front.

He was her personal ghost, visible and tangible to everyone but Belle herself.

She missed him, and not just because she relived every moment of his mouth on hers and his hands on her hips every night of her life. No, it was deeper than that. 

She missed his smile and strange, giggling, trilling little laugh. She missed the wicked bite of his humour, and the way he alone looked at her like she was more than just a pretty girl in a ball gown.

The way he understood all of her, saw both the woman she was becoming and the girl she had been, once upon a time. 

She still wore her goldthread necklace, light and shining around her neck.

But they had a deal, and Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t broken a single agreement in all his life, so far as she knew. He’d said that they could be together if she just stole something from her father, so he had to mean it.

She tried to just casually ask her papa about it, one rare day when they were seated together for luncheon and had a moment to talk. “Papa?”

“Yes, Belle?”

“What… how did Rumpelstiltskin come to be in the castle?”

Everyone knew the story, about how the ageing warrior king turned the tide of the whole battle by summoning the Dark One to his side, and saved his kingdom and his pregnant wife in the process. No one, however, understood how.

“I summoned him, and bound him to our service.” Her papa shrugged his massive shoulders, “Not much more to tell, really.”

“But how? You don’t have a magical bone in your body, and neither does the rest of the War Council.”

“No. Magic isn’t something our people enjoy dabbling in,” he granted, “But this was special, and didn’t really require much of that enchantment, chanting mumbo-jumbo.”

“Then how?”

“Why the interest?” he asked, without any suspicion, just puzzlement.

“Just… I don’t know. I guess it’s just coming to me now that I’ll be Queen one day, and might need to know how to do things like that. Gaston can’t do everything, after all.”

“Oh.” He nodded, missing everything she’d just done, every little manipulation. Mentioning her future, as his heir, was always the way to ignite the teacher inside him, the part that had longed for a son and yet was satisfied to mould his daughter and future son-in-law just as well, “Well, it was the Blue Fairy, actually. She came to us on the eve of our defeat, and told us where to find a dagger buried in the woods. All it requires is a little blood on the blade, and Rumpelstiltskin is bound eternally, until someone else performs the ritual.”

And suddenly, everything fell into place.

If she stole back the dagger, he would be free, could perform the ritual himself and be unbound, free to do as he pleased.

And she didn’t know how to feel about that, a moment’s doubt creeping in. If he were free to leave and never return, would he come back for her? Or would he just vanish into the woods, and leave her alone to marry Gaston become the Marchlands’ Queen?

He’d made her a promise. And that was always going to be her life, whether he was in her father’s castle for the next hundred years or left tomorrow.

“To be honest,” her papa continued, “I’m surprised he hasn’t found the dagger yet.”

“Oh?”

“It’s almost as if he’s not even looking for it,” he mused, “Odd, really.”

“Why, where did you hide it?”

“Oh,” her papa grinned, a smile she didn’t often see on his face, wily and cunning, “I keep it on me at all times. Can’t be too careful.”

“Then perhaps he knows that, and sees that it’s useless.” She replied, her blood drumming in her hears, heart pounding, stomach coiling and twisting into origami knots.

“Perhaps.” Her papa agreed, and went back to his breakfast, turning the conversation to the arrangements for the Summer ball.

The next months passed like they were whales dragging hundred-tonne anvils.

Her father went on progress, and took the dagger with him. Her chance was gone until the winter, when he returned laden with gifts from lords in the countryside and kills from the hunt.

She would be eighteen in seven months, and she needed to work quickly.

She saw Rumpelstiltskin again, more and more, until it was almost like the good old days. It seemed that he preferred the castle in winter than in summer, and oh, she was glad of the company.

They didn’t speak of their deal, and her plotting and abiding anxiety helped her to keep her hands to herself.

It was like they’d swapped bodies, because the opposite appeared true for him. He always seemed to find a reason to guide her into the room with his hand on her lower back, to murmur something in her ear at dinner so that his breath whispered across her skin.

She was seventeen, and no longer the foolish child she’d been at fifteen, in the rose garden, or at sixteen when she’d let herself be guided by lust.

She’d been In Love with him for over half a decade, in his time away from her, his ghost-months, she’d learned restraint. 

So she just smiled to him, coyly, bit her lip to keep from laughing at his wicked little jokes, and enjoyed the slight admiration in his eyes, the challenging little gleam.

But the more she held herself back, then the more he teased in subtle and unassuming ways, and the more desperate she became to fill their bargain.

If she was to learn to live her life with a man she could just about stand to sit beside at dinner, a man who was still really just a scowling and unpleasant boy with toy soldiers: a life without Rumpelstiltskin’s hands on her waist and voice in her ear, then she needed something to tie the two of them together.

She would need a good memory, if only to balance out all the times when she would have to lie beneath Gaston and hope all the Gods that she’d fall pregnant soon, so that he would leave her.

So one night in January, five months before her eighteenth birthday, Belle slipped a small sleeping draught into her father’s drink.

She helped him to bed, swore to the nurses that she would watch over him, keep him from harm. They scurried away with fluttering hands, none of the cowardly little things willing to take responsibility for a mysteriously unconscious King.

Belle knew he would wake within a few hours, right as rain and smiling, and that all of this would pass.

Except that he would be minus one dagger and one sorcerer bound to his service.

The moment of truth came when the entire castle was quiet, and the nurses were, sleeping, and Belle was watching her father’s face with something like grief in her heart.

Perhaps this was how her mama had looked, before she was ripped away.

But of course she couldn’t know, could never know, because Rumpelstiltskin had kept her in his tower and distracted her with pretty things, with magic baubles and pirate ships of upturned tables, while her mother lay sick and dying.

She never repaid him for that.

Nor for allowing her to accost him, a silly, flighty sixteen-year-old with a crush, convinced of love and happily-ever-afters. For being cruel when he had to be, for pushing her away and allowing her her choices, even when all she wanted was to give up every last one of them.

This was her repayment of that, this and one night under a canopy when she turned eighteen, one night of love before a lifetime of necessity and nothing more.

So she slipped her hand under her father’s tunic, and found the cold iron handle of the dagger, tingling with magic beneath her fingertips.

It slid easily from the sheathe, and then lay in her palms, dull and cold and yet still gleaming, still glowing warm with power. This was Rumpelstiltskin’s life, lying in her hands, and the reality of that makes her shiver hot and cold all at once.

For a few bright and glorious moments, she imagined cutting herself with the blade.

She could summon him to her side, and never be alone again. Her best friend, her almost-lover, on her arm for all eternity, and she his mistress, his Dark Lady. Gaston would run for the hills, marry some other girl, and Belle would be free.

His freedom for hers: the choice was hers to make.

She stared at the dagger, and knew her decision.

\---

She’d picked the rose garden: of course she had.

Really, this was where all the trouble had started. It made sense to finish it here, too, to seal the second deal in the place where the first was struck.

This time, no frivolous little lies, and no false pretences. She said she needed to talk to him, in private, in the evening, and signed with her real name. So he knew what he was walking into when he entered the gate to the rose garden, and saw her standing there.

No sea foam silk or flirtatious little smile. His little Belle was dressed in an everyday kind of blue dress and a long green cloak that looked black in the darkness; her expression was grave and serious.

She was more woman than girl everyday, now, and he found he almost missed the little preteen child who had run into his study in stolen trousers and muddy boots.

That girl was still in her, somewhere; she was not dead or gone. She was just covered by a solid layer of adulthood, which hung less awkwardly every day on Belle’s slender frame.

“You said you needed to talk, dearie?” he watched her closely, tried to read her.

She had become good at discretion: he could read little from her expression, and she gave little away.

“Yes,” she pulled something from her belt, and it gleamed in the moonlight. His breath caught, as he watched his innocent little Belle caress his dagger in her hands, run her dainty, fragile fingers over the letters of his name. “I stole it from my father, just as you asked.”

“Wonderful,” he breathed and tried not to show how terrified and amazed he was in that moment.

He’d hoped and longed for this moment, teased her with what could be in the hopes that she would be spurred into action, that she would do as he asked. And here she was, having run his errand, and he didn’t understand the self-loathing guilt in his stomach.

“This is your bondage, isn’t it, Rumpelstiltskin? Your fealty?” he went still at that word, a human nightmare of an encounter so long ago sickening his stomach. But he nodded.

“Indeed. That is an object of evil, and it controls who and what I am.”

She nodded, “And if I give it to you, you will be free. You can leave and never return?”

“If you give it to me, then I will return for you on your eighteenth, for the night I promised. I never break my deals.”

“But you make no promises of life afterwards?” when did his Belle become so wise, so canny? He could see the warmth in her eyes, even covered by uncertainty and the distrust of experience. She wanted to trust him, believe herself in love with him, but how could she when she held his life, the essence of the violence of his nature, in her own pale and tender palms?

“I cannot control your fate, any more than I can mine while someone else holds that knife in your hands.” He responded, and took a step toward her, the draw of his freedom so close at hand too much to bear.

“That doesn’t answer the question. I need your word, Rumpelstiltskin: I give you this dagger and my family and friends all live.” She held her head like a hero, like a warrior queen, and there was no sign of uncertain girlhood about her now. She was not yet eighteen, but there was no more childhood left in this woman.

He grinned, nastily, “What, no promises of personal safety? You believe that, if I decided to destroy you, you could defeat me?”

He inched closer, so close, dancing toward her, but she didn’t move one inch backward. He could no more grab his dagger than she could destroy it.

“No.” she murmured, shaking her head, “I believe that you couldn’t destroy me if you wanted to. I love you, Rumpelstiltskin, and no matter how I age it won’t change. I believe that that’s enough.”

“And aren’t you a romantic little thing?” he smiled down at her, close enough to touch, “Your beliefs are charming, Belle, they truly are.”

“Promise the safety of everyone I care about, my family and friends and country.” She looked up without an inch of fear, just a sadness he cannot quantify, “Promise.”

“In return for my dagger?”

She nodded, “In return for this dagger, and all it carries with it.”

“Then I promise, my lady.” He swept a low and almost mocking bow, “That no harm shall come to anyone under your protection by my hand.”

“Then take it,” she held out her hands, and he plucked the dagger from her upturned fingers as if it were something small and meaningless, a simple rose, a symbol of love and not destruction, “And do what you will.”

And just like that, with a swipe of his finger along the sharpened silver edge, Rumpelstiltskin was free.

\---

She had expected him to leave immediately, and he didn’t disappoint. 

He kissed her slowly and softly in the garden, held her to him for just a moment, and then broke away with a wistful little smile and vanished into the darkness. As if he had never even existed, the fevered dream of an addled, girlish mind.

He didn’t return, not for days and weeks, and her father scoured the castle for his dagger, desperate to call his former pet sorcerer to his side, feverish with his desire to get the power back.

But it was nowhere to be found, and Rumpelstiltskin didn’t appear to reap vengeance or to take back his belongings. Not even the spinning wheel.

It remained untouched in his old study, gathering dust.

Belle spent her days up there, in the old room of her best childhood friend, in the abandoned home of the creature who had once been everything.

He would come back for her: this much she knew.

He didn’t break deals. And if he did, then she didn’t want him back.

But it didn’t stop her from dropping a couple of tiny, inconsequential tears on the burnished wood of the wheel, from spinning it and watching the motion with a singleminded intention to remember every joke and every game.

She’d expected, when he was gone and a part of the past, to dwell most on other aspects of their relationship. She’d expected to lie awake remembering his lips on her skin, his hands ghosting over her breasts over her dress, caressing her back and weaving in her hair.

But while those thoughts did exist, and she did miss the lust-darkened tone to his eyes, the heavy breathing and little moans into her mouth, it wasn’t the greatest pain of all.

She missed him in the sunlight of his tower, teaching her small-self to spin gold, laughing when instead she came out with copper. She missed his gentle jokes, and the way he told her, seriously, that Krakens didn’t just drown sailors but eat them too, so to be a proper one she’d have to chew Gaston’s toy soldiers as well as throw them in the river.

She missed the best friend of her childhood more than she missed the almost-lover of her adolescence.

And it surprised her, and made her ache with sadness.

He would return the night she turned eighteen, and form one more memory. And oh, how she longed for that night, how she needed him to kiss her again, to take everything she’d thrown at him for so long. To love her as she loved him, even for just one night.

But they would never have another daylight moment, another second of pure and happy friendship, basking in warm golden light.

Rumpelstiltskin was the Dark One, but he embodied summer sunshine for her as much as Gaston did a drizzly, grey day in January.

Eventually, as her birthday neared, her papa gave up the search and hired a hedge-wizard from town to cast curses and enchantments to keep Rumpelstiltskin out. Belle wondered if she was the only one who understood how truly fruitless such efforts were, but she didn’t say a word.

She wanted him to come back inside: why would she help to prevent that from happening?

But her eighteenth celebrations came and passed, and she danced with Gaston and accepted another heavy piece of jewellery, put it with all the other shiny, gaudy things. She giggled with Snow about Prince James’ abilities as a warrior, and watched Princess Abigail spend the entire night with Sir Frederick, eyes locked together like nothing else mattered.

And midnight came and passed, and though she stayed awake reading until the morning light, nothing happened.

The pain in her chest was deep and felt rather fatal, but she shrugged her shoulders.

Belle had been a grown-up since she was six years old, and now more than ever it really felt true. She felt her heart break, but she didn’t let it show. For who could understand the pain of a damsel when her monster didn’t come for her?

\---

Rumpelstiltskin cursed every petty wizard from the Marchlands to Agrabah, but he couldn’t get through the gates.

No matter how hard he pushed, or how much magic he poured into the teleportation spell. He couldn’t get through the gates, and Belle’s party continued, and the fireworks burst overhead, and he broke his promise.

Maybe, he thought, as he tried one last desperate spell and failed, this was the mark of a person he loved. Maybe the only way Rumpelstiltskin could show devotion was through empty room and broken promises. Maybe that was his true legacy.

But his mind was quick, and his power unfettered, and so he started to plan. 

He called in favours from witches and Ogre Kings, he brewed storms on the horizon and mixed spells from smoke and dragonblood.

Rumpelstiltskin concocted an entire war, legions and armies of dead soldiers – but this time truly, not dead and only sleeping, for he had promised Belle the safety of her people. 

He stormed the castle with the dream of an army at his back. He had his Ogres pound down walls and stride through villages, knocking over the unconscious in their wake.

Rumpelstiltskin put on a show, and convinced all who beheld it – just enough to carry the news back home – that they were truly doomed, truly dying.

And then, three months after the fabricated invasion, he was called.

Not summoned, for the dagger still rested at his waist and there it would remain, but called. The voice of a King he should have murdered, an oblivious King saved by the intelligence and beauty of his only daughter, comes to him on the wind.

“Help, help! We’re dying, can you save us?”

They weren’t dying: they’d barely have to clean up when all of this was over. But he needs to get into that castle, he needs to fulfil his side of the bargain, and so he answers the call.

They’d let down the defensive spells: they’d have to, if they wanted his help.

None of the guards saw him as he whispered through, as he slipped around their gates clad in a powerful glamour. He stood in the war room until all hope was lost, watching Belle do all she could to hold her world together.

He hoped she could forgive him for this, when all was said and done.

No one died in this story, at least: a few bruises, perhaps, on farmers who fell wrong when they ware knocked asleep. But no real pain.

This was all he could do to get close to her, to fill his promise.

But he was also a showman, so he waited until the King slumped in his throne, until Belle crouched at his feet and lied, “He could be on his way right now, papa!”

That was when Rumpelstiltskin snapped his fingers, and opened the doors to the war room one by one, watched the alarm on the Council’s faces as each door burst open, as an invisible force drove through.

And that was when he took a seat on the throne, and removed his glamour.

\---

Belle stared in absolute shock.

He’d actually come back.

But not for her, no, he was bound by another deal, a later one, to keep her people from harm. Did that extend to saving them from another – unexpected and brutal – Ogre War?

He slapped Gaston’s sword aside, and claimed a price was needed. His eyes and smile gleamed in malice, and she could see that he wanted to harm his old masters more than he wanted to save them.

But their deal still held, and she hoped to the Gods that he would keep to it.

“My price is her.” He pointed straight at Belle, who stared in absolute shock. Was this him returning for her? Or did he plan to leave them to their fate, force her to turn him down for the sake of her title?

But for all his following twittering about not looking for love, about caretakers and estates, and her family holding her back, denying her her choices, his eyes remained fixed on her. He’d missed her too, and now he was trying to rescue her. Now, of all the times and places, Rumpelstiltskin decided to save a damsel in distress.

“I will go with you forever.” She promised, as she had longed to since she was twelve years old, since she decided she was In Love with Rumpelstiltskin.

And no other protests mattered: it was hard even to look upset when she said goodbye to Gaston, their engagement dissolved without even a formal word. 

Then she held her head high, and he swept them outside, looking for all the world like a monstrous beast and a captured, miserable, ruined beauty. Except she was trying not to beam, not to lean into his hand on her back, and he let out a happy little giggle the moment they were free from the war room.

He swept her into his arms, bridal-style, and she squeaked in surprise.

“What in the name of all the Gods was that all about?” There was so much that needed saying, but those were her first words.

“We had a deal, remember?” he set her back down on her feet, and they were in another hallway, in a palace not a castle, a room she didn’t recognise, “And no one breaks deals with me.”

“We… no. You only agreed to one night, my eighteenth. You missed it.”

“Exactly. So for every second I broke the promise, I hereby grant a decade in compensation.” He swept a low and sincere bow, and she curtseyed, giggling. 

Then she stepped forwards, and kissed him, as hard as she could, tongue sweeping inside and devouring him. She poured every ounce of longing and loneliness of the past months, of every moment since they made this deal, of every second without him into that kiss, and he responded in kind.

He was branding her with his lips, searing and powerful on hers, and all she could do was moan and bury fingers in his hair, hope to heaven that she would never have to let go again.

“I love you.” She whispered, as they broke away for breath, and then clamped her hand over her mouth.

“What… what is happening?” he murmured, as the green-gold scales of his face receded, as his hair turned a softer brown and his eyes clear and human again.

She kissed him again, on his new, soft human lips, and felt the last of the inhuman monstrosity of his body fade, felt a new warmth seep from his bones and into hers. “I think…” she said, quietly, “I think I just broke a curse.”

And she could tell he didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. He was human again, clear as day, and looked suddenly so miserable and angry and hopeful all at once that Belle was afraid he would explode.

“My power…” he muttered, as his right leg gave way and he stumbled against her.

For all of a long and heartbroken moment, he was weak and collapsed against her, and she had to hold her monster-lover in her arms and hope he would keep breathing.

But then his leg straightened once more, and he was back upright, bending and straightening it in utter shock.

“Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Yes, dearie?” he said, absently, staring at his limb, bewildered.

“What did just happen?”

“I think… a miracle. However did you manage that?”

She giggled, happy for reasons she could not explain, “True Love, perhaps? I’ve been telling you forever, you stupid man. And True Love can never do any harm, only good.”

“You’re still such an innocent.”

“I’m still always right.” She nodded, hands entwined in his, “Does this mean that you can be powerful without being evil?”

“How in seven hells should I know?” he asked, but his smile was growing to match hers, “I don’t feel any weaker…” he raised his palms to her face, compared their skin tones, human pink on pink.

Then he kissed her again, and the world fell down around them, and Belle wasn’t a damsel in love with a monster, she was a princess who had found her handsome prince. 

And perhaps it happened under adverse circumstances, and perhaps they’d done things a little early to be discreet, a little out of order.

But they were here, and in love, and all the darkness of the past and the world outside melted and broke in their wake.


End file.
